Bottled Up (6 page)

“Daddy throws up a lot.”

“I don't feel like talking to you right now, Bugs. Get me my damn clothes.”

He walked out, and I dragged myself under the water nozzle. I needed to get my sorry ass in gear. If I missed first period Giraldi was going to have me hung and shot.

After I finished soaking my head I leaned out of the shower to yell to Mikey to bring me my stupid clothes. I was just about to call him when I saw that on the floor right next to the toilet was a blue tie-dyed T-shirt, a pair of Levi's, and my purple boxers.

I got dressed and went into my room to find my stash. I wasn't going to be able to make it to all my classes if I didn't get a little weed in me before school. I looked on my dresser, on the floor, next to my pillow, in the bathroom, inside my shoes.

Then I remembered.

I walked into Mikey's room to check under the mattress, but I didn't have to. He was sitting on the floor with my bag of weed in his hand. He licked his finger, stuck it in the bag, and ate what he pulled out.

“What the hell are you doing?” I grabbed the bag out of his hand.

“Having a snack,” he said.

“You're an idiot,” I growled, and shoved it into my front pocket.

“It's mine,” he whined. “It was sticking out of my bed.”

I lifted the mattress and grabbed the other things I'd stuffed there the night before.

“Get out of my room,” he yelled at me, looking like he was going to start crying.

“Don't touch my stuff.” I was getting loud.

“It's my room,” he shouted.

“It's going to be your
ass
in a minute if you don't shut up.”

My mother walked in like she was ready to put out a fire. “What's going on in here?”

“Pip's being a jerk.” Mikey was still whining, and I was holding back from whacking him one.

“Go downstairs and have your breakfast,” she told the baby.

“I want a new brother,” he yelled, walking out.

“You can have one,” I yelled back. “Get some other chump to walk your nose-picking face to school every morning—”

“Don't treat your brother like that,” she said. “He looks up to you.”

“Tell him to stop.”

She was pissed. “Someday he will,” she said, grabbing my elbow for a sec, then dropping it. “Someday he
won't
look up to you, and you'll miss it.”

“He's a creepy pain in the butt, Mom. I'm tired of him tagging along all the time. Can't Eddie Farrot's mother drive him home after school?”

“No. You can do it.”

“I'm not his father,” I said.

“You're his brother.”

“So what? That means I've got to walk him to school, pick him up, and watch him every day?”

“Yes.”

I was about to let loose on her that it's really her job to take care of him, not mine. But she kept talking.

“When I saw that policeman at our front door last night,” she said, “I thought he was going to tell me you were dead.”

She was getting ready to cry. I could tell. I knew that look. It was the same one she gets when my father yells at her.

“Your father wants to be the way he is, that's his choice. You're the way
you
are and I'm too late to save you.” She looked as if she was in pain—as if I had taken a knife and jammed it into her gut.

“But your brother,” she said. “He still has a chance. Things could be different for him.”

She put her hand under my chin. “I can't have all three of you out of control. I can't live like this—the screaming, the throwing things, the middle of the night fights, and now the police bringing you home. I can't take any more and I won't allow your brother to get himself messed up too.”

She dropped her hand from my chin and used it to wipe the tears off her face.

“Mikey's coach called,” she said. “He's been missing T-ball practice. Take him there after school today.”

I didn't answer.

“You hear me?”

“I hear you,” I said.

“Don't make your brother late for school,” she said, and left me standing there staring at the door—watching the back of her head walk away again.

I guess it was better than seeing that look on her face—those sad brown eyes that don't look even a little like mine.

I knew Bugs couldn't keep quiet all the way to school. I figured halfway there he'd forget he was mad and hit me with a bunch of stupid questions. He held out 'til we got right in front of Ann Hutch Elementary.

“Who's stronger?” he asked. “Spider-Man, Batman, or Superman?”

I told him what he wanted to hear. “Superman can kick anybody's butt.”

“Who's stronger? You or Daddy?”

“What do you think?”

“You?” He didn't sound too sure.

“I got kryptonite in my pocket,” I said, hitting the front of my jeans. “Superman can't even get near me.”

“Check it out,” he yelled, pointing to the backhoe digging away at that hole in front of the school. “Maybe they're building a swimming pool.”

“Not in the front of the school, bean head.”

“I'm going to be a construction worker when I grow up,” he said. “I'm going to dig holes and fix things.”

“You better get into school or we're both going to be late.”

“Know what?” He pulled his backpack up on his shoulders. “Daddy's going on a class trip with me.”

All I could do was blink. Once.

“We're going to the zoo,” he said.

Don't hold your breath,
I almost answered.

“He's going to be a leprechaun,” Mikey said.

“You mean a chaperone.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You know, Bugs, sometimes Dad says he's going to do something, then he doesn't.”

“Like taking us to the beach—”

“Right.”

“And to McDonald's that time—”

“Yeah and—”

“But not this time.”

“How do you know, Mikey?”

“He promised.”

I blinked again. “Oh,” I said.

He turned to the school, but stopped for one more question.

“Pip, what was that stuff this morning? That stuff you got so mad at me for eating?”

I made like I didn't hear him and walked away.

Maybe he'd forget to ask me later—if I was lucky.

Maybe he'd stick to asking about M&M's.

School sucked. All day.

It started with Giraldi grabbing me on my way to first period.

“Did you make your call?”

Crap. I knew I'd screwed something up.

I checked my pockets to see if I still had the counselor's business card while Giraldi sort of shoved me into his office. If I hadn't had it on me, I think Giraldi would have called my father right there on the spot.

I held it up. “See? I was going to call. I was just on my way to a pay phone.”

I started to leave and he blocked my way.

“Call now,” he said.

“It's kind of private. You know what I mean?”

“If you don't use the phone on my desk right now, I'll be making my own call.”

I picked up the receiver and started to dial the number on the card. I felt funny being on his side of the desk while he was where I'm always standing. I thought about giving him a detention.

I sat down on his chair and leaned back to get comfortable. I sort of sank into the chair and started swiveling back and forth.

“You've got to be kidding!” He came at me and put his finger on the phone like I'd done the day before.

“Stand up,” he said, pulling on my elbow.

I stood.

“You don't seem to understand, Phillip—”

“Pip—”

“Quiet. I'm giving you a chance to turn your life around. I'm paying attention to something going on with you that no one else has bothered to do anything about. I am giving you a shot here.”

“Yeah, some shot. More like blackmail.”

“That's the way you see it?”

“I see you threatening me.”

“What you don't see, Mr. Downs, is that I'm the best friend you ever had.”

He nodded his head toward the phone and stepped away so I could dial.

“Jensen Family Counseling,” a woman's voice said on the other end.

“Can I talk to Claire Butler?”

“This is Claire.”

I was hoping she wasn't going to be in. I mean, I knew I had to do this or get killed—I just didn't want to do it right that second.

“My principal told me to call so I can come in and see you.”

“What's your name?”

“Pip Downs.”

“Oh, right. Mr. Giraldi told me you'd be calling—yesterday.”

“Well, I'm calling today.”

“I'm glad you did. Mr. Giraldi said that he thought you could use someone to talk to—that you have a lot going on right now.”

“He wouldn't know,” I said.

“He also told me that he wants you to sign a release form giving me permission to let him know whether or not you show for appointments and comply with the counseling. Are you okay with that?”

“Did he tell you I don't have a choice?”

I looked at Giraldi. He had his hands in his pockets and was watching me.

“He said if you didn't come in he was expelling you.”

“Nice guy, right?”

“Can you make it in today right after school? Say, three-thirty?”

“I have to take my brother to T-ball practice—”

“I don't want to hear excuses,” Giraldi jumped in. “You get yourself there.”

“What time is his practice?” Claire asked.

“Three-thirty 'til about four-thirty.”

“Can you get to my office by five?”

“Probably.”

She told me where the office was. It wasn't far from the school. I knew the place. It was right next to the all-night gas station mini-mart where the Friday cashier always lets us buy six-packs.

I hung up the phone and Giraldi opened his office door for me to step out.

“You have to attend all of the counseling appointments as often as she says and follow her rules. If you cut counseling or classes you're out of here.”

“Wouldn't you have more fun hassling somebody else?” I asked as I walked out the door.

“No,” he said.

“Best friend I ever had, my ass,” I said loud enough for him to hear.

The third-floor boys' bathroom smelled like a mix of everything that's ever been flushed down the toilet plus the B.O. of a hundred ballplayers. I did my part to get rid of the stench by lighting up a joint next to an open window. There was no way I was going to sit through Fleming's class without a little help from my friend Mr. Cannabis the Weed.

I sucked in as much freedom as I could, holding on to the smoke until my lungs were going to bust.

“Can I get a hit?” this kid Webster asked me, coming out of one of the stalls. Johnny and I gave him the name Webster because he's like a friggin' walking dictionary. This is the kind of guy who's always trying to get somebody like me to like him. Trying to come off cool by asking for a
hit
or laughing too loud when you're acting stupid. I don't know why these bozos can't just be okay with who they are—smart losers who'll never be cool but will make a lot of money someday.

“No time, Webster. I can't be late for class.”

I breathed in some more life and closed my eyes, hoping the kid would disappear. He didn't.

“You're
always
late for class,” he said, laughing at his joke. I didn't laugh with him. I didn't even smile. I blew some smoke his way and stared him down until he left.

I pulled as much from the roach as I could—smoking it down so low that I burned my lip.

I was splashing water on my mouth to cool it when the late bell rang and the bathroom door opened. I figured it was going to be Giraldi or some hall monitor to bust me.

It was Slayer.

He was getting ready to light up a bone.

“Here,” he said. “I got one for you too.”

I was late already. A few more minutes wouldn't kill anybody.